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Vulnerability. It’s one of those onomatopoeic words – you know, the ones that sound precisely like what they mean.

[vuhl-ner-uh-buh l]

It’s slow and fragile and difficult.

But like green vegetables and red wine, as I grow up I’m beginning to grasp wholeheartedly, and fall madly in love with the things I once hated.

Vulnerability is one of them.

But before you get this image in your mind of a girl sitting alone reading Jane Austen novels, shy and meek and timid, stop immediately.

I’m talking about being vulnerable from a place of tumultuous, delicious excitement – the ‘risk it for the biscuit’ type.

Because in risking something, whether it be money on the roulette table, ego in a relationship, becoming friends with your parents on Facebook or ordering anything other than a Chicken Parmagiana on Wednesday night, there’s this wicked sense of vulnerability. Couldn’t it all go totally wrong?

Or right? So right.

I think it’s borne from this underlying sense of self-entitlement, which has me sure that the cookie jar is infinite. That maybe today there are Oreos on offer, but tomorrow could be teddy bear biscuits and the next day choc chip (the Coles Farmhouse ones though, amirite?). I hope you’re getting my analogy.

Is the willingness to take risks, and be vulnerable and putty-like in the hands of a new experience borne from the optimism that nothing can really go wrong?

I’d like to think so.

As the new year rings in (for me to the sound of Flight Facilities, YAY!), I’m hoping some of the #resolutions come not from a place of getting everything together, but instead, in pursuit of getting lost in a deep spiral of vulnerability, of risk-taking.

Be okay with not knowing the answers, trust the cookie monster to deliver the goods. Everyday.